Ragnarok
by Saskia Q
Summary: As the world learns the truth, that werewolves exist, Derek and his pack find themselves fighting for their lives in a world of complete chaos. All wolves and the humans that help them are slaughtered by the military. While Derek struggles to keep his pack safe, he must fight off his own inner wolf from claiming Stiles as the military threat closes in.
1. Chapter 1

It was a massacre.

That was the only way to describe it. A bloody massacre.

A scattered mess, of wolves, hunters, assassins, soldiers and humans.

Derek's hands were raw from slashing through countless bodies. His hair and face were red from all the blood that had been shed, including his own.

He was hard pressed to remember how or why it had even gotten to be this way. How had it all gone so horribly wrong?

He should have known. He should have seen this coming.

He, out of all those present, should have realized the humans would eventually turn against them.

Peter knew, so did Chris. Both tried to warn him.

He stopped for a moment and looked around. Everything was covered in blood and dirt. Even in the darkness of the night, he could see the ground littered with bodies and discarded weapons. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, trying to get some of the blood and dirt off. However, the action did nothing, for his arms and hands were covered in dirt and blood too.

So many battles waged over the years... and yet, none like this. Humanity has always feared that which is different. And when the world learned that humans were not the only species on this planet, war happened once more.

Derek looked up and saw a large army of soldiers and assassins coming towards him. Their footsteps gently rocked the ground and the smell of bullets covered in wolfsbane stung his nose. So many of them, Derek could not see the end of the army even with his superior vision.

He had long since lost sight of his uncle and sister, a mass of soldiers came between them and pushed him further into the forest where at least Chris Argent and his hunters had managed to muster their forces and pushed the enemy back. Even from where he stood, Derek could hear the voice of the hunter shouting commands to his people.

There was certainly no mistaking Chris Argent's mighty voice.

Until it suddenly stopped.

Derek spun, slaying a soldier that was blocking his view, in time to see the mighty hunter fall, though he couldn't tell by what manner of weapon.

Anguished cries followed, and removing an assassin's head from its shoulders, he turned again to see Allison Argent rush to the aid of her fallen father.

Derek threw a soldier aside as a warning call ripped through the air.

"Allison, get down!"

Derek looked up, bewildered and rattled. He watched it happen.

An arrow. Breaking fast through the air. Breaking fast into Allison's head, forcing out blood, forcing out life.

Scott reached Allison before her body hit the ground.

Derek turned and saw him, the man responsible for yet another dead pack member. He took maddening steps toward Scott. His hair, a wild, tangled mess, stiff and slick with dried blood.

"Why?" Scott screamed at him, his voice raw and mature. "Why would you kill your own kind?"

"She was fighting to keep monsters like you alive." He reached to the pouch of arrows slung over his back, and pulled one out, loading it into his bow. "She broke the code."

Scott looked up, zeroing his rage on the male hunter. He reached into the pocket of his pants, gripping the handle of a dagger. He didn't take a breath before throwing it. Didn't give the hunter a chance to beat him in this sick race of kill or be killed.

The irony wasn't lost on Derek; Allison Argent, killed by an arrow. He stared at a confused, crying Scott, looking so frail and out of place, kneeling on the ground in front of his dead mate. And then there was Lydia, her cheeks damp, her hair in disarray and the outfit she'd worn that day covered with dirt and blood, standing beside the lifeless body of her best friend.

Derek wasn't sure what happened next, distracted as he was trying to keep his own head, and only looking over again when he heard a scream, one that he prayed he would never have to hear in his life; the scream of his own mate, Stiles.

He could only watch in dismay as Stiles collapsed, a knife falling from his hand, while Malia screamed his name, abandoning her line of defense so she could catch him.

Realizing that he had missed, leaving Stiles wounded but not dead, the shooter moved quickly, raising his gun once more.

Cold fury in Derek's claws carved a path of carnage towards where his mate now lay helplessly on the ground.

But then Malia was up, moving faster than Derek had ever seen her move. The soldier turned to face her, his expression mired in confusion and surprise at this tiny woman rushing at him. That expression narrowed to malicious determination when he pointed the gun at her, and Derek hoped she would stop or change direction, but she just kept moving, straight at the shooter. She did exactly what Derek would have done. She saved Stiles and sacrificed herself to do it.

"No!"

Peter's scream echoed, almost as loudly as the gun that went off. And then it all went quiet, everything just went silent, a buzz in Derek's ears. He forgot about the enemy for a moment, forgot about Stiles kneeling in horror a few feet away. He simply stood, eyes wide, panting in shock.

Peter ran. He fell. On his knees, he reached for her, the hole in her head so reminiscent of Allison that Derek choked on bile. Peter's hands shook as he gathered his daughter up into his lap, shouting her name as he held her head. He shook with the intensity of the loss, rocking her back and forth as he dragged a hand down her face, begging her to open her eyes.

"Malia, please, please, look at me. Come on, look at me."

But she didn't; his pleas fell on deaf ears.

After an unbearably silent moment, the shooter fell to his knees, revealing Isaac, face pale and eyes wide, looking down at the man he had killed and then his eyes dropped, and Derek stepped closer, following his gaze, to Isaac's abdomen. His hands pressed to a wound as he stumbled backwards, bright red blood pouring through his fingers, spreading a dark stain across the front of his vibrant green sweater.

Derek's prayer went unanswered, because the next scream he heard was his sister's.

"Cora," he shouted as he gutted a soldier to his left. "Cora, please hold on."

"Derek…" Cora's voice was a whisper lost in the roar of battle. "I… can't."

He ran the short space between them. "You can." He gripped his sister's hand. "You must."

A knife sailed over his head and embedded in the skull of another soldier that tried to sneak up behind him. Looking up he saw a group of men approaching and recognized them as Sheriff Stilinski and Deputy Parrish.

John reached them first. He froze, stricken by the sight of their wounded and dead. "We have to get them inside," John said, snapping Derek out of his grief momentarily. "Chris still lives. Isaac and Cora might as well, but not out here."

Stiles nodded, wrapping an arm around Isaac's waist as he helped him walk.

Derek closed his eyes for a moment, tears sliding silently down his face. In that moment, Derek felt that the whole world held nothing but blood and death. He was exhausted.

Cora's scent was enough of a distraction to give him the strength that he so desperately needed, pulling him from his madness momentarily. He struggled to his knees, biting back a groan; his last fight had left him with bruised, maybe broken ribs, but there was no time for pain.

Derek lifted Cora gently in his arms and stood, forcing himself to ignore the way his sister's blood soaked into his clothes.

John watched him before he maneuvered himself between dead bodies, slipping in mud and blood that littered the ground, and picked up Allison while Peter and Scott carried the body of Malia.

"This way." Deputy Parrish said, eyes sorrowful as they retreated back, deeper into the forest.

Somewhere along the way Deaton found them, and with his help, the rescue party passed through the relative safety of a magic border designed to keep the enemy out. The respite was short-lived. Melissa's face reflected the pain on Derek's own as the single healer present pronounced Isaac dead in a voice that was thick with grief. Then she turned to where Derek sat with Cora in his arms and Deaton crouched beside them as she placed her hands on Cora's wounds and tried to stem the bleeding.

Blood trickled from the corner of Cora's mouth as his sister let out a soft chuckle, and Derek pretended he didn't see Melissa's eyes widen in fear as he cradled his sister closer.

He wanted to cup her face, or her hand, but he couldn't break the press of his fingers against her wound, couldn't give up the hope he could force her life not to leave her, force her not to go, not now, not ever. He settled for dropping his forehead to hers. "I'm sorry, Cora. I'm so sorry."

Her fingernails dug into his arm. "My choice, understand? My choice. Not your burden to carry." She gasped, coughed, a slip of blood spilling from the corner of her mouth. And then she was gone.

Cora was dead. Her blood still slowly pooling around her body as her eyes gazed blankly up at Derek. The hole in her jacket, in her heart. He wasn't fast enough. He wasn't strong enough to stop them. The assassins and soldiers were long gone, and he was left with the aftermath of their destruction.

A massacre.

That was the only way to describe it.

To be continued…

Please share your thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

Clenching his teeth against the most epic migraine of the century, Stiles forced his eyes open and looked around blearily. His injuries, mostly minor in nature, had been bandaged up while he'd been out cold. He found himself on a sofa in his own living room. No surprise there. By now, the Stilinski house, command center, was surely overflowing with both the dead and the wounded, with no proper bed to spare. The stench of blood, sweat, and death saturated his nose, making it a chore to breathe.

Wincing against the pounding in his skull and clutching a bandaged forehead, Stiles struggled to get up. The blood of enemies and friends stained his clothes and body. Silently he rubbed the muscles of his neck, aching with fatigue.

All around him, police officers, wolves and hunters swarmed from one end of the house to the other, frantically carrying out last-minute duties to speed up the final stages of the town's evacuation. A handful of others simply sat on kitchen chairs or self-made beds, their expressions in a dazed stupor, none of them noticing Stiles. Several were hurt, some far worse than others. The rest were merely exhausted, and would surely wind up dead on their feet if they tried to stand. Sufficed to say, Stiles easily fell in both categories. His head felt as though it had been split open by an axe.

Suddenly he noticed Liam sitting in the corner between the wall and one of the weapon crates, knees brought to his chest, face hidden in his arms.

He took a moment to come up with something reassuring to say, but failed miserably, before he pushed himself off the couch.

"I'm sorry." Stiles blurted out, snapping Liam out of his daze.

"What a mess." Liam murmured, pulling back his hair, which seemed too dark and unfit for his white face.

"What a massacre." Stiles added with trembling lips, stoically fighting the urge to cry. "Where's my dad?"

"Emergency meeting." Liam stated, pointing in the direction of the Stilinski home office. "Go take a shower first before you barge in there, you reek."

Stiles nodded, went into the bathroom and turned on the light. He stared at the reflection in the mirror. When had he become so old?

Pulling his shirt over his head, Stiles closed his eyes and repressed the image of a tired, sad man.

Fighting for his life from dawn until dusk had caused him to fatigue every single muscle in his body, leaving his limbs sore and stiff. That, however, said nothing of the traumatic flashbacks flooding his brain. Memories of violence, terror, the death of his friends, and the hideous faces of those responsible came back with a vengeance, reminding Stiles that he had not survived this day with the whole of his psyche intact.

Under the running hot water, Stiles was able to relax briefly. He jerked off methodically, because it had been a while, and he probably wouldn't get another chance for a long time. Only the soft green tiles that lined the shower learned his deepest desire as he came.

• • •

"You're sure this is the right course of action?" John asked for the tenth time that night.

"Yes." Derek, hunched over a map on the desk, assured him as convincingly as he could. "Absolutely." But of course John could see that he was troubled. Any sane person would be.

Derek drew a wide circle across the map, as the others leaned in to survey it. "We can probably get there in 2 weeks, unwanted trouble not included."

Derek's palm held one side of the map down to prevent it from rolling up, while Peter held the other side and watched Derek making marks across the paper.

"We'll all take different routes," Derek informed, more to the map than to John. "We reconvene here." One fingertip landed on the map, obscuring their destination and half the mountain range.

"This being the top-secret Hale cabin?" Chris Argent muttered dryly. "Brilliant, how are we supposed to-"

"Reach the cabin?" Melissa interrupted, tugging the map out from under Peter's hand. "I'm no hiker, but I think these pointy things are mountains," she paused, tilted her head one way, and the map the other. "I don't suppose they colored them white to show it's a sandy, tropical paradise?"

"One group will go through the mountains using the tunnel, the others will go around." Derek replied, as though they'd asked him to solve two plus two and he worried he'd have to send them all back to grammar school.

"How are we to be divided?" Deaton asked quietly.

Doctor Deaton's confidence, so much like his own, was something Derek found immediately reassuring.

"In groups of four or less. Peter and I will take Stiles. I leave the rest of the dividing to you, Chris."

"I know," John said suddenly as he sat down in the chair behind his desk. "Your dirty little secret. All of it."

Derek turned to face him, looking suitably shocked and dismayed.

"I suspected," he went on, "Especially after Stiles told me the details about the pool incident."

The way Derek's breath hitched, as if holding back a deeper emotion, was the only thing that betrayed his otherwise stoic demeanor.

"You pretend to dislike him, but the moment he's in danger you risk your own life to save him." John fought to keep the anger out of his voice. "I couldn't stand not knowing the truth. And now... Now I wish I could forget."

John's face flushed with anger, and he could feel the words of hate gather in his throat. He tried to choke them down, but they just kept coming up, like word vomit.

"And to make matters worse." John spat, turning towards Peter. "I learned you tried to bite his wrist. I knew that little detail meant something. I thought maybe I was being paranoid. But no, I was right, you tried to take Stiles away from me. And you would have, if Derek hadn't killed you."

"I didn't..." Peter started to argue, but he could not look John in the eyes and make that argument. Not after all the things he had done. Because truth be told, he would have taken Stiles from him, in more ways than one.

"As terrible as it is for a man my age to admit. I would have bitten and claimed Stiles given the chance. But that was another man, another life, literally." he finished haltingly, realizing his claws had popped out without intent.

John turned to face him once more. "As if you still hold any credibility here after everything you have done."

"I... never planned for any of this," Peter admitted as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Stiles was always my intended mate, chosen by nature, not me. But when Derek killed me and took my Alpha status, Stiles became his. I used Derek's power for my resurrection, making Stiles my mate once again. I don't care if you believe me or not. Makes no difference to me. But I am no longer the man who would claim an underage boy against his will. But if your son, now a man, accepts me, I will claim him."

John shook his head. "I should shoot you were you stand."

"Neither I, nor Peter, are to blame for this, it's simply natural selection." Derek assured him tightly.

"My son now has, not one, but two Alpha wolves as destined mates. What is natural about that?" John took a deep breath and continued. "And now you want me to hand him over to you? The Universe gave Stiles to me, not you. There is a reason for that! I have the right... Stiles has the right, whether he sees the need for it or not, for me to know what is going on in his life, to be there to protect him, keep him safe."

"Protect him how?" Derek challenged, finally looking John in the eye. "By putting him in a mental institution? Have you the slightest idea the damage you've done, the fear, the anguish, the insecurity you've-"

"Oh no you don't!" John insisted fiercely, shaking his head in angry disbelief. "You're not going to stand there and tell me-"

"No, he's not," Peter cut across him icily. "This conversation is finished. Stiles comes with us."

"No," John protested firmly. "He is not. I'm not letting you anywhere near him."

Peter sighed. John actually thought it was that simple. His powers of denial were extraordinary.

"It's not up to you," he explained patiently. "No matter where Stiles goes on his own, or where you take him, he is our mate. Derek and I will follow him to the ends of the earth."

"This is neither the time nor the place to have this discussion." Argent snarled. "Be reasonable, John." Chris pleaded. "If Allison was still alive, I would let Scott protect her in a heartbeat." Chris's voice shook. The emotions he had locked away behind his mask reached the surface and he had trouble keeping the tears at bay.

"We are both trained professionals, but even if we make every shot count, we aren't enough. One wrong move and…" Chris's voice trailed off as the images of Allison dying flooded back into his mind. His heart suddenly ached when he remembered he hadn't been enough.

Chris took a deep breath and continued. "You don't have to like it, but if you want your son to survive, this is his best chance."

"Stiles is not going to go willingly." John said sharply. He was surprised by his own calm, and judging from Derek's bewildered expression, he was too. It seemed that hurricane John had finally come to a rest.

"We know. We have a plan. You're not going to like it." Peter answered and John groaned in displeasure.

• • •

Stiles stepped out of the shower and fumbled for a towel when the whole house reverberated with the angry shouts of his father. Just as he opened the door he saw Scott exiting his father's office with a troubled look on his face.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Difference of opinion," Scott informed him. "Derek wants to split us up. Each group will take a different route to our destination. Derek and Peter insisted on accompanying you. Your father doesn't like it."

Stiles quickly dressed and made his way out of the bathroom, joining the others in the kitchen as Scott informed them of Derek's decision.

"One Alpha isn't enough to protect the defenseless human?" Stiles looked around for support on Derek's obviously bad decision. All he received was a lot of blank stares.

An awkward moment of silence followed. Scott found himself suddenly very interested in a piece of glass on the floor, Liam played with his phone, Isaac and Lydia glanced at each other uncomfortably. It seemed like no one wanted to touch the issue of Derek's strange behavior towards Stiles. Scott wasn't sure he ever wanted to go near that one. Peter and Derek could explain this to Stiles themselves. John, in Scott's opinion, had to be either immensely brave or masochistic to put himself right in the middle of it.

"Guessing from your silence, you all agree with Derek. Why don't you just tell me how you really feel?"

"Stiles, that's not…" Scott started when Stiles stood up. He walked across the room towards the door that separated him from his dad's office. He didn't bother knocking and opened the door. Six sets of eyes snapped up in his direction and whatever conversation had been going on between the four walls instantly died.

Stiles's face was blank and emotionless. He ignored John as he stood up from behind his desk.

"Close the door." John sank back down in his chair but did not break eye contact.

Stiles did as he was told and the door fell quietly in its lock behind him. He didn't move further into the office. There were no empty seats and he rested his back against the door, crossing his arms defensively in front of his chest.

"We have decided to relocate. This town is no longer safe. Splitting up is our best option since large groups attract unwanted attention."

From the way Derek spoke, Stiles could tell he was nervous about the outcome.

The Alpha briefly looked at him. "You will join me and Peter in group 1."

Stiles cocked his head and smiled. "I think not."

"Son, I believe this is… the right decision." John nodded, his voice soft and barely louder than a whisper.

Stiles's eyes drifted in the direction of his dad. What he saw was a mixture of guilt and confusion. He had been about to reprimand his father for agreeing with Derek, but seemed to change his mind the longer he looked at him.

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass."

"Enough." Peter ordered playfully as he moved behind him.

Stiles's eyes widened when a firm hand clamped over his mouth. Some kind of cloth was being held over his face, and when he brought his arms up to push it off, they were quickly intercepted and pinned next to his body by Derek. He tried to twist away but the cloth moved with him, muffling his cries.

"Deep breaths for me." Peter whispered near his ear.

Instinctively Stiles inhaled, and his head swam from the sickening smell of whatever was on the fabric. Panicking, he managed to turn his face up and found himself staring directly into a pair of bright green eyes.

"Easy, little one." Peter murmured gently, withdrawing the material and letting Stiles take a breath.

What was happening? Was this a dream? Did his dad just exit the office? Stiles tried to struggle but his limbs were uncooperative, heavy and unfeeling. He was completely helpless.

"Don't fight it." Peter said soothingly, holding Stiles still as he stroked through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead.

Derek released his arms, but whatever they had drugged him with had left him entirely paralyzed. He could barely blink. Softly, he managed a faint moan of distress.

"Put him on the desk." Peter ordered, his fingers gently rubbed Stiles's reddened wrists.

Derek moved to stand behind him, forcing Stiles down gently until he's bent over the desk.

"Now we get him ready for transport."

Transport to where? What was happening?

"Alright, I'm going to give him the sedative now." Deaton said, resigned, already preparing a syringe.

The elastic waistband of his pants were tugged down, exposing the fleshy globes of his backside to the cool air. Stiles was naked. He was butt naked in the middle of his dad's office, bend over a desk, in front of neatly stacked papers and a mug of pens.

He whimpered in fear, then cried out from the pinch of a needle in his butt. He felt Derek and Peter behind him, and inhaled sharply when Derek's hand closed around his wrist, holding him in place.

Peter pulled his pants back into place for him. Whatever they injected him with, it worked fast. After only a few seconds Stiles felt himself fading out.

Someone leaned over, close to his ear. "I like you like this, Stiles." Peter whispered, patting his butt. "You look good on your belly, trussed up so pretty for me."

Before he could wrap his head around that, Stiles felt his eyes roll back, and everything went dark.

To be continued…


End file.
